Mucky Mickey

You’ve heard of Mickey, I assume?
The boy who never cleans his room?
It isn’t span! It isn’t spick!
The dust is several layers thick.
If you went in, you’d get out quick:
the stinky stench would make you sick.
You’d faint from breathing in the fumes
in Mickey’s foul and filthy room.

The windows are so caked with grime,
the panes are black with mould and slime
and, when you touch them, they feel sticky,
so finding things is very tricky
amidst the dark and murky gloom
of mucky Mickey’s mucky room.

The ghastly scum is all composed
of scrapings from between his toes,
of scabs and scurf and, I suppose,
of bogeys picked from Mickey’s nose.
He’s clearly never used a broom
to sweep his rank and reeky room.

One day a pile of dirt, perhaps,
will topple over and collapse
while Mickey is in bed asleep
and bury him ten metres deep.
When policemen from the Special Branch
arrive to probe the avalanche,
they’ll said, “Is that a person, yes?
Underneath the filth and mess?
He’s trapped so deep, we can’t see whom
the muck has crushed in Mickey’s room.”